M. Lachlan: Wolfsangel

After a steep climb he came to where the rope was fastened. Here, the fissure sloped into a level tunnel. There was no light at first, but a wolf is a creature of smell, not sight. The human musk and the fish stink of the candle led him on until, faintly, he saw a glow.

He followed the trail down through the tunnels and the cracks, trusting to the scents when he couldn’t see a light. Feileg knew his chances of finding Adisla in that labyrinth were very small indeed but these two were his only hope. He didn’t know where they were going but they were going somewhere and they had light. That had to be better than crawling purposely through the dark.

As he descended, Feileg began to feel there was something else in the darkness, something that didn’t wish him well. He had no wolfstone to protect him, no gift from a god to keep him safe. The dark seemed like an animal itself, one that rubbed against him, licked his flesh, knew him even. Something, Feileg sensed, was crawling over his mind, sniffing at his thoughts, marking them with its own scent. The witch, he could tell, knew he was there.

On instinct, he tried to lose himself, to cut away that human part, to just be a wolf hunting in the dark, as Kveld Ulf had taught him to be. He felt the pressure in his head lift and move away. She had gone, but he knew that to get what Adisla wanted — to bring back the prince — he would have to confront the witch face to face. Even at a distance, her presence had seemed like a spider creeping over his brain.

Feileg was sweating now. The candlelight had stopped moving forwards. As he drew nearer it became stronger, its glow more golden. He edged his way to a corner and looked round.

The old man with the sword was standing in front of what seemed to be a hill of gold. The treasure was piled from the floor to the ceiling of the cavern, and the chamber was not low. The man had put on a byrnie and a helmet and was holding a shield that seemed more for show than war. Feileg looked at the way the man stood in his war gear, the confidence that seemed to shine from him. He knew this would be no easy opponent, no merchant’s bodyguard to be smashed and dashed.

In front of the old warrior was a child, a haggard girl in a dirty bloody shift, carrying a broken spear shaft.

Then the light had gone. In the flash of a flint being struck Feileg saw the man and his companion, but the girl had vanished. Another flash. And another, and the girl was there, stabbing at the warrior with her spear shaft. Feileg saw her fall and then it was dark again.

And Feileg knew. The ragged little girl was the witch and the only hope for the prince Adisla loved. If the warrior was attacking her, that made him his enemy. It was flat dark but Feileg could hear the man breathing, smell his sweat, hear the movement of the rings on the byrnie.

Quiet as a wolf over snow, he sped towards him and struck.

Anyone Feileg had ever faced had been put down by his first attack, and Authun was no different. The king went sprawling to the floor with Feileg on top of him, but even as he hit Authun, Feileg knew he was in a fight. There was no fatal breath of shock for the king, no moment where he needed to work out what had happened to him and adjust. In an instant he had locked out the arm Feileg had put to his throat, driven into the elbow joint with the heel of his hand and forced the wolfman off him, twisting to stand as he did so. All that without sight.

If Feileg had been a less flexible man, Authun would have had him at his mercy, using his arm to pinion him through the shoulder to the floor. Instead, Feileg rolled away and broke Authun’s grip, but now the momentum of the fight had changed. Authun was standing, Feileg was on the floor, barrel-rolling away from him.

Feileg felt the king’s shin in his side as Authun kept pace with him. The warrior was keeping contact with him so as not to lose him in the dark. Feileg flipped back and heard the sword cut the air.

Feileg was now on his feet. The king’s byrnie jingled like a reindeer sled as he moved and told Feileg exactly where he was. The wolfman sprang again. The king could not see him but heard him exhale as he leaped. Authun crouched behind his shield to offer a smaller target and the wolfman went over his head, falling badly on the uneven floor.

There was a mournful sound from far away, like the mountain wind, though they were too far underground to be able to hear that.

All the air had been driven out of Feileg’s lungs by his fall, and Authun moved towards him, drawn by the sound of his panting.

The noise again. It couldn’t be wind, not here. And it sounded more animal. Authun struck into the darkness but his sword sparked on the floor. There was another flash. Saitada was trying desperately to light a candle. In the instant of light he saw the wolfman about to spring.

Feileg hit him again, but Authun blocked with his shield and bounced him aside. Authun could sense his man was tiring. He wished he had a shorter weapon than the Moonsword with him. If he let the wolfman close with him, he could finish him at close range with a knife.

The flint hit steel once more and Authun caught a glimpse of his opponent. It was enough. The Moonsword sliced out and caught the advancing Feileg across the thigh. The wolfman screamed as he crashed into Authun. The king battered him down with his shield. Feileg was howling, but a deeper sound stopped Authun dead — a rumbling snarl like a rock slide. It was a very large animal, probably a bear, and it was close. The noise distracted the king and the wolfman rolled away.

Feileg couldn’t stand — that much was clear to Authun, who could hear him dragging himself away in the dark. With another enemy so close, Authun couldn’t risk grubbing about to finish him off, but he knew men in battle could get up from terrible wounds and Feileg’s groans gave him away. However, the wounded wolfman was useful to the king. If there was a bear in the cave it would be drawn to the coughing and groaning man on the floor. Then Authun would know where both his opponents were.

Finally, Saitada had the candle lit.

The wolfman was trying to get up while behind him floated two points of green light. When Authun’s eyes adjusted, he felt himself shiver.

It was a wolf, but bigger than any wolf he had ever seen. It was bigger than any man, half again bigger than any white bear. How had it got into the caves? The tunnels were surely too narrow. The creature snapped its jaws and looked at him, coughing and hacking.

‘Fa… fath…’ If Authun had not known better he would have said the beast was trying to speak.

He made himself loosen his grip on the Moonsword, shook the tension from his limbs, breathed out and walked towards the wolf. To his right Authun noticed the wolfman crawling away. Let him go, he thought. He would be dead from loss of blood before long, and even if he survived wouldn’t be back to attack him any time soon. The fury that allows a man to forget mortal wounds is a short-lived thing, Authun knew.

Five paces from the creature he stopped. He was struck that its front right limb was more like a human arm than the foreleg of a wolf but most of all he noticed its teeth — each as big as a boat nail.

The king smiled. This was a rare death, he thought, one worthy of the tales of the skalds, but there was only the scarred woman there to witness it. He almost wished he hadn’t mortally wounded his previous opponent. His old friend Varrin would have loved to have died fighting such a monster, he thought. The face of the drowned man came into his mind again. He had killed him, and for what? What had been made by his ambition, what future secured, what treasures won?

The beast hacked and coughed again. Was it trying to speak? It didn’t matter. Authun had wanted death and here was his perfect enemy — the opponent who could not be pitied, the monster, the useful fiend who could be struck without compunction.